


A Fruit and Vegetable Medley

by elistaire



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, Humor, M/M, the terrible tragic deaths of many fruits and vegetables
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 15:10:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1822921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elistaire/pseuds/elistaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cuthbert Kalhoun and Duncan MacLeod tangle at the farmer's market. It gets messy. </p>
<p>
  <i><br/>Kalhoun was good, Methos gave him that, but MacLeod was better.  And nothing warmed the cockles of the MacLeod heart, or gave fire to the MacLeod fighting machine, like justice that has been too long sitting on a warming plate</i>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <i></i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fruit and Vegetable Medley

**Author's Note:**

> Late-time Posted for my Engineer. :)
> 
> Possibly my favorite story I have ever written. It makes me laugh every time I read it. 
> 
> If anyone ever wanted to do a podfic of something for me (that could be shared), this would be it. 
> 
> Also, Cuthbert Kalhoun may be my favorite k'immie name I have ever come up with. He totally needs more stories, just to show how evil he is.

"Fresh greens?" Methos asked as he held up two rosettes of leafy lettuce, one in each hand. 

"Definitely. We'll fix a salad to go with the shish kebobs," MacLeod said as he looked over a table piled high with radishes. He picked out a bunch to go with their already growing stash of produce. 

After paying for the vegetables, they continued to stroll through the remainder of the farmer's market. The day was the sort described by romantic poets who had just rejoined with their beloveds: sunny, the barest whisper of a breeze, perfectly comfortable temperature, and with a sky so blue that it brought tears to the eyes just to gaze upon it.

The farmers' market itself was quaint and busy. The stalls were spread out or squished together without apparent forethought, causing clumps of traffic congestion and wide open areas where one could comfortably linger with an ice cream. Behind the market loomed an old warehouse that had in turns held granite, firewood, used tires, and now held a display of old farm equipment that was being burnished for the fairs held in the fall. 

MacLeod smiled, a not-quite-full bag of fruits and vegetables held in the crook of his arm. Summer was high and deep and the fields were giving up their best bounty. He stopped by a stall that sold berries and perused over the succulent pints. He'd just chosen two green cartons full of plump blackberries when a stinging presence rippled down his spine. Glancing over, he saw another man with steel-eyes and ice-white hair focused on him. 

"Just walk away," Methos murmured, close by his side. "There're too many people."

But MacLeod knew this man and he had a score to settle. "Cuthbert Kalhoun," he said between gritted teeth. Never had a more corrupt, criminal, or cruel man crossed MacLeod's corridor. MacLeod narrowed his eyes and his mouth twisted in grim expectation. 

Methos sighed and took the bag of groceries that MacLeod passed off to him and, after a few friendly words with the operator of the stall they were in front of, tucked them in the back. Then, he strolled in the direction that MacLeod and Kalhoun had gone--directly into the warehouse. 

It was a dark and dismal warehouse, smelling of fumes and decay. The farm equipment stank of hundred-year old cow manure and filthy beams of sunlight filtered in through windows so high between wall and ceiling that no one could have ever cleaned them since installation. Except for the two combatants, who danced around the spines of metal farm attachments, threshers, and the devouring mouths of haying machines, not a soul from the farmers' market had wandered in. 

Kalhoun was good, Methos gave him that, but MacLeod was better. And nothing warmed the cockles of the MacLeod heart, or gave fire to the MacLeod fighting machine, like justice that has been too long sitting on a warming plate

It was no contest. 

Just as Kalhoun's head fell away from his shoulders like a just-over ripe casaba melon, crashing to the floor and spilling its seeds across the dirt and ages of the warehouse, Methos noticed the canisters. He blinked, adding-machine sounds ca-chinging in his head. Old, rusty farm equipment. Cleaning solutions. Welding tools and gases. Lots of gases. 

"MacLeod!" he shouted, pointing, and MacLeod turned and saw the danger. He put his head down and sprinted toward the door where Methos stood. Behind him the fuzzy white effulgence of Kalhoun's quickening coalesced, growing as thick as mushroom soup above his body. As he ran, Methos could hear behind him the snap, crackle, and pop of energy released. It would be the last possible retribution of an incensed and splenetic sore loser; Kalhoun's outrage at defeat would be the catastrophic destruction of whatever his quickening could reach, down to the last shards of energy from his body. And it was all going to be centered on MacLeod. 

There wasn't really anywhere to go--the farmer's market was in full swing and stuffed to the gills with people--and no matter how fast or far they ran, the quickening would find MacLeod. 

Methos decided to run just a bit to the right, to give himself some distance from MacLeod. 

The quickening hit him just as he paused at the entrance to the market--bolts of lightning struck at MacLeod and arced off him into the stalls. 

With screaming, panicked efficiency, everyone scattered. Methos ducked down beneath a table and did the only sensible thing left open to him. He covered his ears. 

The explosions were still loud. From inside the warehouse, the containers of gas and fuel that had been under extraordinary pressure detonated into cataclysm. The time-encrusted windows at the top blew out and glass rained down. 

Electricity zipped through the air, assaulting MacLeod and everything around him. The carefully laid displays of vegetables and fruit erupted into the air. A bin of watermelons burst forth, spraying pinkish flesh and black seeds everywhere. The blueberries and strawberries exploded upward and then, like hail, pelted down again with bruising consequences. 

All around him, Methos could hear the plop-plopping of fruit falling, and the uneasy wetness of melons and tomatoes shredding open, skins vaporizing and leaving only snotty innards to ooze and fall everywhere. Root vegetable projectiles--carrots, turnips, potatoes, parsnips--were frenzied in their aim. Sacks upon sacks of onions ruptured with a sound like thunder, filling the air with their pungency, and Methos' eyes stung and watered. The world swam in colors of sweet corn yellow and zucchini green, and reeked of untold numbers of blown-apart raw garlic bulbs. 

Still angry, the quickening continued to attack, and Methos could hear MacLeod's yells as he was struck again and again. 

Methos eyes began to swell and hurt, his mouth and nose burned, and he remembered the chili pepper dealer that had been nearby. The acrid, caustic odor and oils of cherry peppers, jalapenos, Scotch bonnets, and habaneros filled the air and choked out everything else. 

Finally, there was silence, and the last bits of dark green and greenish-red lettuce filled the air like snow and floated down to coat everything with their sticky verdancy.

Methos peered out from under his table and saw MacLeod in the aisle between the stalls. Gingerly he stepped out, squishing his way over. MacLeod was covered in gunk and slime, his hair was slathered together into a hunk of sludge.

He groaned, eyes slit barely open, and Methos helped him to his feet. "Come on," Methos said. "We need to get out of here." He eyed the destruction as they slowly moved away: fibrous, vegetative goo clung to every surface and the corpses of a thousand luckless fruits and vegetables littered the ground. "I think we'll have steak for dinner, don't you?"

 

~fin~


End file.
